Plague
by Galad Estel
Summary: Thranduil is wandering through the woods alone in summer, when he comes upon a sick stranger, who he takes under his care. Set after the Last Alliance but before the Battle of Five Armies, when the Necromancer is in Dol Guldur. Canon! Thranduil.


**AN: Ha, ha, I was trying to come out with a canon! Thranduil fic, and I bumped into this story that wanted to be told but is quite possibly AU. Yet, it does feature a quite canon Thranduil as its main character. Hopefully, this will be of interest to someone. At any rate, I dedicate it to AzureSkye23, because she wanted more canon! Thranduil fics, and she's a lovely person, and because this story also features another one of her favorite characters (which is why it is possibly AU). -Galad Estel **

_**But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again. – The Unfinished Tales, J. R. R. Tolkien**_

Summer is Thranduil's favourite season. (Galadriel and he do not always see eye to eye on everything, but they agree on summer.) It's warm and there are flowers. He wreathes his head in lilacs and apple blossoms. He believes them more beautiful than a crown of metal and stone. They do not weigh as heavy on his head, though their scent is as strong and crushing as wine.

Summer is swimming in the river. It is countless outdoor feasts and long hunts through the wood. In the north, winter is cutting, spring comes late, and autumn falls gracelessly. Summer is a blessed relief, yet it is also a reminder. Summer comes from the south.

Thranduil walks through the forest. The trees seem to grope each other – they have grown so close, and the air is stifling hot even though it is still morning. He has lost himself in the forest. No, not lost, he can never truly be lost in this wood. It runs through his blood and bones. A map is written in his mind from the many walks, runs, rides, and falls.

He woke early before the others were about. He kissed his son as he lay sleeping. Legolas did not stir; his dreams so consumed him. _What does he dream of?_ Thranduil wonders. _What could he possibility dream of to make him smile so?_

Legolas is a glut of smiles, a blissful, golden prince, like Thranduil before the war. Wars – there has been more than one. Thranduil remembers fleeing the Sack of Doriath. He remembers hearing reports of the War of Wrath, but most clearly and coarsely, he remembers the Last Alliance. The Last Alliance of Elves and Men – he does not fully approve of the name for that war. He has had alliances afterwards with other races. (He counts the men of Dale as some of his greatest friends.)

Nor was it a complete alliance. Gil-galad called them, and they came, but Oropher, Thranduil's father, would not take orders from a Noldo, high king or not. He commanded his own men. They rushed fearlessly forward on a sea of Orcs, but soon they were drowning in their own blood – coughing, choking, hearts broken, throats slit. Their armour was not strong enough to shield them from the weapons of their enemy.

All the while Gil-galad was shouting for them to come back. Thranduil saw the panic in the eyes of the Elves around him. Savage terror conquered his mind. He screamed, cursed, and fought the enemy on all sides of him, trying to return, but it was too late. The Silvan army was falling in shreds, and everywhere there were Orcs.

Thranduil saw his father die. Again and again, this image punctuates his dreams. Oropher fell like any one of his soldiers, no great historic ending. His chest was cut open. He fell like a great, red sun, and his body was trodden beneath a tide of Orcs.

Thranduil knows he could not stop it, and yet his nightmares think he should. They retrace each moment up to his father's last breath. He should have died instead. Oropher should have led back his broken army, only one-third left living, but if he had, Oropher would have wanted things to be as they are now. He would have wanted his son to live, and he would not have wanted to survive with his such shame. If only he had listened to Gil-galad.

The war went on after that – Gil-galad fell spectacularly at Sauron's very feet, a death worthy of many songs – but Thranduil has few other memories of it. Afterwards, they said he fought bravely, that he brought hope back to a dying army, but Thranduil doubts their words. After all, of course, their historians say that. They would not write up their heroes as cravens. But Thranduil does not remember leading anyone. All he remembers is the dust and the heat, the killing and the falling down. They wrote him up as heroically wounded. He remembers a sore shoulder and a broken wrist.

The sun is hot on Thranduil's back. It reminds him of Mordor. The days there were always hot and dark. Here they are usually dark and cold, only in summer is Mirk –Greenwood hot. Thranduil wants to take his shirt off, and finally he does, peeling the cloth off his sweating skin. He ties it round his waist.

He feels guilty about leaving his halls without telling anyone. There is no law against it, but he still feels guilty._ How long will it be before they notice my absence? _he wonders. Being king has its chains. He is a slave to duty, caged by power. How he envies the common folk, who can come and go as they please. He wonders if other kings feel this way. He wonders if Sauron ever just wanted out. Then he wonders why he thinks so often of Sauron. Thranduil never even met the Maia, but still his shadow lingers over him, as if his fallen enemy had followed him home.

Thranduil shakes the thought out of his head, passes between two embracing elms. He runs now and leaps, deer-like. He feels the moss and pine needles through his thin shoes. He should have a guards, but he can take care of himself, needs to take care of himself; the kingdom can take care of _itself _for a few hours. He has his bow and knife and battle experience. The woods are full of dangers, but he knows them all. They are a part of him too, though he hates them.

A squirrel scolds in the branch above, warning Thranduil that he is invading its home. Thranduil obliges the squirrel by taking a path away from its tree. Besides, he has not noticed this path before and is curious as to who made it and where it leads. The path trails down a hill, long knotted roots cross it many times. It's steep. Thranduil guesses the path maker must be nimble. He turns a sharp bend and sees someone walking a little way off. Whoever it is, is dressed in tattered clothes – grey in colour or dirtied white.

'Hey, there!' Thranduil calls. 'What are you doing in my forest?'

The figure half-turns then starts running further down the path.

'Halt!' Thranduil cries. 'Or I shoot.' His fingers have already readied the arrow.

The stranger halts and turns. It is tall and seems slim, too slim for its loose tunic and trousers. Its face is covered in rags, so Thranduil cannot be sure if it's a man or a woman.

'Please,' the stranger begs. He has the voice of a troubled man. 'Stay away. I am grievously sick. I don't want to infect you.'

'I am one of the Quendi,' Thranduil replies. 'Whatever it is, I can't catch it.'

'Are you sure?' the stranger says. His voice is still anxious.

'Yes,' Thranduil says. He puts his bow away.

'That is good then,' the stranger says. He smiles widely and walks forward, until Thranduil steps back and reaches for his bow again.

'Forgive me,' the stranger says, backing off, 'but it has been so long since I have had heard another's voice.'

'How long have you been wandering in my woods?' Thranduil demands. He does not trust travellers much these days. The Enemy has many servants, and though Mordor has been empty for years, he is still afraid. Some malevolent sorcerer has claimed Dol Guldur in the south, and not even the White Council will bring Thranduil aid.

'Your woods? A few days. Wandering? Many weeks. I am very tired. I don't think I'll last much longer.' As he says this, the stranger clings to a tree trunk for support.

'What is it that ails you?' Thranduil asks.

'It's some plague that rots the flesh,' the stranger says. He holds out his right hand, which is bandaged. A finger is missing. Thranduil is struck with horror and pity at the sight. He has heard of such a disease, but he has never seen it before.

'I caught it when trading in the east,' the stranger says, 'and it has followed me back.'

'Perhaps you should have stayed there,' Thranduil says. 'They would have known more about the disease, and you would not spread it to the west lands.'

'Yes, perhaps, I should have stayed,' the stranger says meekly, 'though there is no cure for my ailment, and the people in the East are cruel to strangers.'

'Indeed,' Thranduil says. 'I have heard that they worship the One Enemy.'

'Sadly, I believe that is true.'

'What is your name? And who are you people?'

'I am called Zîr,' the stranger says. 'I am from Gondor.'

_Z__îr_, Thranduil thinks, '_wise', a Westron word, borrowed_ _from the Quenya, saira. _He recalls the word from his study of common tongue, but his mind steals much further back to Menegroth, to the rule of Thingol. He remembers when Quenya was stifled in the northern lands. He sees Galadriel at court, dressed in Sindarin fashion, choosing her words, careful not to speak her native tongue. He sees Gil-galad in silver and adamant on the field of battle, shouting orders in Quenya, Silvan, and Sindarin, trying to save their lives.

Thranduil brushes these thoughts aside and looks at Zîr who is staring at him. Zîr's eyes are strange. They are half-hidden by the rags, but from what Thranduil can see of them, they are yellowish, and the pupils seem too small. Perhaps, it is part of his condition.

'Well, Zîr,' Thranduil says gently, 'I am Thranduil, lord of this domain, and I will do what I can to ease your suffering.'

'I am most grateful,' Zîr manages before falling forward into Thranduil's arms. Thranduil helps Zîr to a hunting lodge. He lays him out on one of the narrow beds and covers him in blankets.

'I would take you back to my palace,' Thranduil says, 'but we sometimes have mortal guests, and I would not have the sickness spread. I will bring a healer back to attend to you.'

Zîr shakes his head. 'Haven't I told you? It can't be cured. I don't wish anyone else to see me.' He hides his face in his bandaged hands. 'As it is, you already run the risk of being a carrier.'

Thranduil starts. Can this be true? Can he carry a disease that cannot harm him? He is not a healer, and he hasn't given the matter much thought, as he has never, in all his centuries, suffered a moment of sickness. He runs through his memories of disease. The Dale men get sick. They cough and sneeze and shiver. Sometimes when they spend time in Mirkwood and return home sick, they claim they caught the cold from their Elven allies. But can this be true? Is he a carrier? If he is, he cannot return home until the disease dies out, and he has no notion of how long that will take.

He stays the night with Zîr (sleeping on the other narrow bed) and goes out in the morning. He runs into a search party, looking for him.

'Keep your distance,' he says. 'I have come across a very sick man.'

He then tells them to bring him food and clothing and blankets and lay them out on the ground. They leave, and later he finds big, round loaves of bread, large slabs of venison, bottles of wine, fresh and dried fruit, blankets, slippers, and robes a little ways from where they met. Thranduil takes all the supplies to the hunting lodge. Zîr, who has woken late, looks relieved to see him returning.

'I thought you had run off on me,' he says with a smile. He takes some of the food but not much. He does not touch the clothing.

'You might as well wear them,' Thranduil says. 'They'll have to be burnt. They'll carry the disease.'

That much he knows at least. Clothing can carry disease. It makes sense then that his skin can carry sickness as well. It is a surface.

'I would not want you to see me,' Zîr says, 'like I am now. You are so beautiful. I would be ashamed.'

'I could leave for a moment,' Thranduil says. In truth, he does not want to see Zîr without clothing. He is afraid of ugliness and deformity. Orcs always make him cringe, with their misshapen faces and bowed legs. Even Dwarves have that effect on him, with their stunted bodies and unlovely faces. He does not want to see Zîr's rotten flesh.

'All right,' Zîr says.

Thranduil walks outside. He leans against the front door. He wonders what he is going to do. He can hear Zîr scrambling in the hunting lodge. He wonders how long it will take for Zîr to die and feels guilty for wondering.

'You can come back in,' Zîr calls. Cautiously, Thranduil does so. Zîr is now wearing a long dark blue robe and black slippers. His tattered clothes lie in a heap in the corner. Zîr is still wearing rags over his face. He also has the hood of the robe up over his head. He looks nobler though.

Thranduil looks him up and down. 'Are you of the race of Númenor?'

'Why do you ask?' Zîr says.

'You are so tall.'

Zîr looks thoughtful. 'I don't know who my mother was,' he says. ' And my father left when I was very young. It is possible.'

Thranduil nods and does not press him.

Several days pass. Early every morning Elves bring food to the lodge and then disappear in the shadows of dawn. Zîr does not grow weaker or stronger. He remains the same, lying on the bed, biting back the pain, and talking sometimes. Thranduil finds he opens up to him. Zîr has one of those voices that draw out answers. He seems so young and sad and unassuming.

'I was born in Doriath,' says Thranduil, one evening when they are sitting together on Zîr's bed.

Zîr leans against the wall, his eyes closed. In the candlelight, he looks almost beautiful, but everyone does in candlelight. He nods dreamily. 'I heard it was a glorious city. The design was laid out by Melian the Maia, was it not?'

'Yes,' says Thranduil. 'She was our queen. I only knew her for a short time though, before she fled back to Aman, bodiless. I was born near Doriath's end.'

'It's always sad being at the end of things,' Zîr says.

'Yes,' says Thranduil. 'It is sad.'

'After Doriath, where did you go?'

'East,' says Thranduil. 'My father wanted a kingdom of his own.'

'Why?' Zîr opens his eyes and looks at him inquisitively.

'I don't know,' says Thranduil. He thinks of his father, so strong and full of hope. In Thranduil's memories, Oropher is always young. Sometimes it seems to Thranduil that Oropher was more his child than his father. 'I guess he wanted independence.'

'And power?'

'Yes, maybe,' says Thranduil. 'He wasn't the only one. There were others out looking for kingdoms.'

'Who?' Zîr seems genuinely interested.

'Many, though few succeeded. There was Celebrimbor, Galadriel –'

'The Lady of the Golden Wood?' Zîr says, his eyes widen. 'What was she like?'

'I didn't know her well,' says Thranduil. 'But her husband was Celeborn a kinsman of mine. She was cold, and lonely – I think – and proud, very proud.'

'The proud often are lonely,' says Zîr.

'Yes,' Thranduil says. 'She did have a few friends, but she must have hated hiding away for all those years. She was the first to strike out for the East, and we followed her. Eventually she settled in Eregion, but my father went on, past the Misty Mountains, to these woods. Here we have continued for many years.'

'Your father was Oropher,' Zîr says. 'He died in the Last Alliance.'

'Yes, he was. You are learned indeed.'

'He fought bravely,' Zîr says.

'But recklessly,' says Thranduil. He sighs.

'His heart was cut from his chest by a scimitar,' Zîr says sadly. 'I watched it fall.'

'What?' Thranduil says. He stands up and stares down at Zîr in astonishment. 'But you can't have. You're just a young man!'

'I have had dreams of it,' says Zîr. He looks at the candles on the end table. Moths fly in spiraling circles round them. Zîr's yellow eyes watch them burn. 'Sometimes I wonder if I didn't actually fight in that war. Do you believe in rebirth?'

Thranduil looks at the candles. A few are burning down to their bottoms, red wax spilling over the side of their holders. 'It is said that Elves can be reborn in Valinor after they die,' he says.

'But what of Men?' says Zîr. 'Do you believe there is a new life after death for them?'

'I do not know what happens to Men,' says Thranduil.

'I believe,' says Zîr, 'that I was there at the Last Alliance, and I think we shall meet again after Zîr is dead.'

'If that comforts you,' says Thranduil.

'It does,' Zîr says. He looks thoughtful. 'Also, I don't think your father's death was in vain. Every one on the field contributed to the fall of the Enemy. Gil-galad could not have done it on his own.' He lies down and stretches himself out on the bed. 'Good-night.'

'Good-night,' says Thranduil, his head ringing with unasked questions.

Zîr falls quickly to sleep. Thranduil watches him for a while. Zîr looks as tranquil as Legolas, and Thranduil thinks of killing him. He would never let his son have such a dreadful death, this slow rot. He bends over Zîr and bares his throat. The skin is white in the moonlight. Thranduil runs his hands along it. It's warm and smooth. He bends and kisses his neck, not wanting to unwrap the face. He reaches for his hunting knife, when Zîr's eyes flutter open.

'Thranduil,' he says. 'What are you doing?'

'Nothing,' says Thranduil. 'I was just going out to get some night air.'

He leaves quickly and stays out until the morning, hunting in the hidden glades. He shoots down a couple pheasants and returns to the lodge at sunrise. The lodge is empty; both beds are made. The blue robe Zîr has been wearing is neatly folded on his bed. His tattered clothes are missing. Thranduil stands in the doorway and stares. He searches the room and finds a letter on his pillow. Well, letter is a compliment. It's a piece of birch bark with wobbly words written in blood. It reads:

_Dear Thranduil, son of Oropher,_

_Thank you for your kindness and hospitality._

_You are great nurse, though __I am afraid I have not_

_been entirely honest with __you. I was never ill, except_

_with loneliness. I needed someone to talk to, and you were there. _

_I feel foolish writing this letter, because if we do ever meet again, we_

_shall likely not do so as friends, and yet I meant the words_

I said last night. Not that you will believe this now that you

_have found me a liar, but I admire your strength, Elven-king. If_

_you had not taken command when your father passed on, it is not_

_likely that any of his army would have come home alive. _

_I have wanted to meet you for a long while, but I had not_

_expected our time to be so sweet and the ending so bitter._

_I do not know how or if you discovered me, but if you did_

_you should have slain me sooner. In years to come, I will_

_remember your mercy, though I doubt I can repay it._

_I think this is all the blood I can spill right now without fainting,_

_so I wish you a good life for however long you live._

_Love,_

_The Necromancer _

Thranduil reads and rereads the letter. At first, he thinks it is a joke. He runs through the woods, searching for Zîr, calling his name. In his heart though, he knows that there was never a Zîr, and he does not find him. He comes back and reads the letter again. He thinks of sending it to the White Council, but the intimacy irks him, so he burns it instead. He burns everything that was in the lodge, except his own clothes and weapons. He will burn those once he is safe at home.

'Loneliness is a plague,' he says, as he scatters the ashes. _One of the few that Elves can catch. _He feels tricked into feeling. All that love and pity wasted, and he had trusted Zîr, but of course, he had. All sorcerers have sweet voices. It is simple emotional manipulation. The Necromancer wants to form a bond, but Thranduil will not allow him to win. He will write to Mithrandir. He will voice his suspicions on the identity of the master of Dol Guldur, and Sauron's attempts of mastery will drastically backfire. With these thoughts in his mind, Thranduil makes his way home.

Thranduil walks through the forest. The sun burns his back. He wonders why he never noticed that Zîr did not stink from rot. He blames the flowers round his head, whose perfume blocks out all others scents. Summer comes from the south, and he hates it.


End file.
